Mal de Ojo

I study her hip bones, mid-day.
Something crackles through the trees—no, a withering.

I let the last malanga rot on the counter because it is easier
not to have to cut another thing open.

Bulls in my blood, pawing. The winter of it all.

Days later, I made another woman my enemy.
I followed her for three blocks before I tripped over my envy,

forgot to lessen myself. When I hit the sidewalk,
I felt my mother fall in Florida, and her mother, the same.

But I am smaller now than I was then. Please, do not ask
about my thens.